Wynkyn, Blynken & Complete Suspension of Disbelief
by Spitfireness
Summary: What Sark wants most in this world? Sleep. Post "Truth Takes Time." Semi-Sarkney-ish Lite?


Title: Wynken, Blynken, & Complete Suspension of Disbelief Author: Nes Disclaimer: Alias belongs to Bad Robot, ABC, and their other people who are not me. Summary: What Sark wants most in this world? Sleep. Post 2x18, "Truth Takes Time." AU. "Suspension of disbelief" is part of the title for a reason. Its 2 am and I feel like talking, anything except reading about the KMT. So I write Sarkney; it's a logical progression. I know I have incomplete stories, but this one wouldn't go away. Parts 4-7 of "Scylla and Charybdis" are in beta right now, hopefully they'll be out this week. Warning: Yes, it's got more tense changes that I can count. I know. Deal. Maybe I'll ask someone to beta it later. And this is completely unplanned, too, so.I dunno. Read at your own risk.  
  
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What Sark wants most in this world? Sleep.  
  
It might surprise his enemies and associates with their expectations of his fine suits and finer wines but right now, happiness is a down comforter. Or a pallet, in fact, he's not too proud to slump on the floor unconsious.  
  
He couldn't even sleep on the plane back from Stuttgart. He wasn't being paid enough. Kowtowing to both Sloane and Irina while they played out their little game of dominance would have already killed a lesser man.  
  
Sark isn't sure but it might just kill him. Especially if he doesn't get some rest, and soon.  
  
So it was with considerable displeasure that Sark came home to his supposedly secured hotel room to discover the light on and door unlocked. He didn't even bother to attempt stealth or take his Sig in hand. Instead, he walked inside the room, removed his shoes, and slumped into the easychair by the door.  
  
"Just go ahead and shoot me," he said. His eyes were closed and he wasn't standing so he figured he could die at peace, his life's ambition fulfilled.  
  
"I'd love to, but I'd have to borrow your gun."  
  
Honestly, Sark hadn't expected a verbal response. He silently swore; he'd almost drifted into the sleep he craved before the voice had broken into his sweet, sweet dreams.  
  
And speaking of dreams, that voice.  
  
Sark lifted his right eye lazily, then his left. He blinked. Next he rubbed his eyes, and finally opened them and stared at the figure lying on his bed. Then he decided his priorities remained the same and shut his eyes again.  
  
"Sydney, be a darling, and throw a pillow over."  
  
Seconds pass and unexpectedly the pillow is carefully placed between the wall and his head.  
  
Damnit. He's going to have open his eyes again. He fights the desire as long as he can. It's the warm body at his feet that moves him to action. Yes. That's her, curled in a blanket at his feet. Her hair is shiny and her skin rosy, he observed. He bet she's been getting her eight hours.  
  
"I believe that's my down comforter." He held out his hand.  
  
"I'm willing to share." Amazingly, nothing in her voice or body language screamed of seduction.  
  
He was forced to not only keep his eyes open, but admit an actual facial expression. Well, part of one. Slowly, he crooked an eyebrow.  
  
"Not that the notion of a sleepover isn't lovely, but I'm much too tired to point your nails, give you a facial, or talk about the cutest boy in school right now. I've been dealing with your old boss and your allegedly dead mother; I hope you can appreciate my situation. I simply am not prepared to solve the mystery of Sydney Bristow tonight."  
  
"What about tomorrow morning?"  
  
"Sydney, I'm tired. Too tired even for full sentences-," he paused. "Morning? What?"  
  
"Why don't we move this to the bed?"  
  
Sark decides if this is some sort of CIA trap, he doesn't much care. Sydney has just said the magic word.  
  
He stood and held out both arms to her, "Carry me?"  
  
She didn't laugh exactly, but he could tell she was amused. Unfortunately, he had been serious.  
  
She took one hand and led to the bed where she draped the down comforter around him.  
  
Knowing he would be lost once his head hit the pillow, Sark propped himself up on his elbow. Her outfit seemed at cross purposes with her attitude. She was wearing camoflage pants and green military issue shirt.  
  
He watched her expectedly; alert as anyone could be without sleeping in four days.  
  
"Vaughn was almost hurt today."  
  
Sark nodded. Oh, did she expect a response to that? "Er, yes. It was nothing personal, you understand."  
  
"See, but it was."  
  
He cocked his head a little to the side in confusion. "Then why haven't you killed me yet?"  
  
"That's not what I meant. Did you know I wore makeup on the Brucker op?"  
  
Before he could comment, she continued in a rush. Apparently it had been a rhetorical question.  
  
"Usually, I don't if I can get away with it. I got enough of wigs and makeup working undercover, you know. But I wore mascara, lipstick, the works because I knew that Vaughn would be in the field with me. I *curled* my hair. I treated it like a date instead of a mission."  
  
"I think you did quite well." Sark had always found her emotional, but he couldn't fault her professionalism and skill.  
  
"Thanks," Sydney looked at him oddly. "My point is that I was wrong. As much as I love him and want to keep him closeby, we can't work together in the field. I used to dream of it, but I see now that it's not working. So I broke up with him. Then I officially requested Vaughn's field rating be removed pending additional training. He'll be angry when he finds out, but he'll be *safe*."  
  
Sark suppressed a groan. She had interrupted his precious quest for sleep to tell him that if you loved something, you set it free? Sark might not have cared for Michael Vaughn but he respected the man for listening to Sydney's silliness and not going effing insane. Honestly, Sydney just needed some time and perspective. The woman had just been betrayed by her mother but instead of confronting her titanic maternal issues, she was evidently, to use the American expression, freaking out. Why else had she decided to make him her confidante and teddy bear? Someone obviously needed to set the woman straight, and if he wanted to sleep tonight, he was going to have to make an intervention. He drew a breath, ready to-  
  
"He's not like you, Sark. He can't protect himself."  
  
Sark paused, "I'm flattered."  
  
"That's why I think we should sleep together."  
  
"Sleep? Good." Sark put his head down, then raised it. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I'm propositioning you," she said frankly and switched off the bedside lamp.  
  
It had to be one of the more charming offers he'd received in a long time. Allison had been turning more and more towards Tippin, no matter how she tried to deny it so that wasn't a problem. And besides, Sark was much too clever to pass on Sydney Bristow.  
  
Although, perhaps, he could be too tired.  
  
"Sark," Sydney's touch, although rough, on his shoulder brought him back to the living.  
  
"Let me check to see if I understand the situation correctly. You, Sydney Bristow, ace American spy girl, are propositioning me, Sark, ruthless yet refined soldier of fortune?"  
  
"Despite the epithets, pretty much, yes."  
  
"Because I shot your boyfriend today?" Sark shook his head, befuddled -and, oh, let's not forget, exhausted. "Ah, I see. You think I'm safe."  
  
Sydney kept quiet for the first time that night.  
  
He decided to forget that she more concerned with protecting her already fragile heart, than his preserving his health. Sark plunged ahead, "After all, it's not like there are people I could possibly have offended. Anyone out about in the world who holds a grudge and would like to hurt me?"  
  
"Or celebrate to see a split end on your pretty blonde head? Please. The line starts with me and goes around the block." She paused, "Twice."  
  
"And yet," he let the question hang in the air between them. He wasn't sure why since he'd already decided to take her up on the offer; an offer that would surely be rescinded if he gave her the time to think it through. Then again, the idea had survived long enough for Sydney to track him down and wait in his bed.  
  
"Like I said, you can protect yourself. I don't need to watch your back." Her lips bowed a little, hinting at a -could it be?- salacious thought.  
  
Sark wondered at her pink mouth. Perhaps she was finally acting on long- refused attraction? It wouldn't surprise him. He had personally felt-  
  
"I do, anyway, sometimes," Sydney said.  
  
Sark blinked. Yes, she had said that. Perhaps Sydney had been concussed at some point, there *had* been debris from the explosion.  
  
"Sark?"  
  
Oh, right. The lights were off. Sydney couldn't see the puzzled look on his face.  
  
"I'm awake," he assured her. "Hang on a second."  
  
Her breathing was calm and even, her foot barely touched against his leg through the blanket. He could feel her waiting. Somehow 'Yes, Sydney Bristow, I think I will be your bulletproof boytoy' didn't seem like an adequate response.  
  
Instead he closed the distance between him and wrapped the blanket around them both. Leaning his forehead against hers, he looked into her eyes, and spoke against her lips. "I accept your offer wholeheartedly. Realize that I'm going to hold you to this."  
  
He yawned. "But it's going to have to wait until morning."  
  
Sydney nodded in accord, "Morning."  
  
Sark believed she would still be come daylight, but wound his arm tightly around her anyway. Drifting, he realized he hadn't locked the door but he didn't get up. Down comforter and an armful of Sydney Bristow? As long as no one woke him up first, Sark could die a happy man.  
  
***  
  
And so they lived happily ever after --meaning they had gorgeously raucous sex the next morning when Sark finally woke up. 


End file.
